


Not Quite Enough

by duustbunny



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Face-Fucking, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 05:59:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5816803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duustbunny/pseuds/duustbunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by an anonymous prompt in the Supernatural Kink Meme, January ’15: <i>Crowley/MC, consensual face-fucking. With Crowley on the receiving end, preferably on his knees. Please no degrading dirty talk.</i></p><p>Crowley/Dean, set during their little MoC “bromance”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite Enough

It’s not always like this.

For starters, there’s usually a woman between them. But tonight Dean is drunker than usual and it’s on those occasions only that he lets Crowley get away with this.

Dean never returns the favor and they never talk about it afterward. They don’t even talk about it during. It’s always in complete silence except for the wet noises and heavy breathing. Dean doesn’t moan, doesn’t use his vocal cords at all, but he comes, so he probably enjoys it. Well, Crowley enjoys it, and that’s all that matters.

Dean is unexpectedly gentle, despite his increasingly violent temperament these days. He keeps mostly still, even during orgasm, and even then he tries not to push Crowley, not to take more than what is given.

It’s not what Crowley wants, though. He wants Dean to lose himself in it, to give up self-control in favor of pure raw need. But it never happens, and Crowley’s not about to ask.

This time, though, he wants it badly enough to take Dean’s hand and place it on the back of his head. He stills for a moment, a not-at-all subtle hint of where things are supposed to go from there. Dean knows, he has to, and yet all he does is stroke Crowley’s hair in the most tentative and disgustingly tender way. It’s a thousand times more humiliating than if Dean were actually fucking his mouth like he’s supposed to.

Crowley puts his hands down to rest them on Dean’s bunched-up jeans around the man’s ankles. And then he waits.

Nothing.

He’s about to give up when he notices the slightest of pressures on his scalp. _Finally_.

Crowley lets the pressure guide his head forward a fraction of an inch. Everything stills then, their breaths, time itself. He no longer feels the pressure of the floor on his knees, the heat of the suit jacket covering his back, the sting of the belt digging under his stomach. His whole world shrinks down to the fingers on his head and the cock in his mouth. He chances a look up and sees Dean watching him. Now their eyes are locked and Crowley wants nothing more than to look away, but of course he can’t do that, so instead he smirks around Dean’s cock. That stirs something inside the human, it seems, because next thing he knows Dean’s eyes are narrowing and the cock in his mouth is sliding in deeper.

But then it stops. Again. Dean looks more confused than angry now, and Crowley can’t for the life of him hold that gaze. He looks back down, suppresses a sigh and gets back to work. He’s humiliated himself enough.

It’s almost the same as any of the other times, except Crowley’s being more aggressive than usual, angry and wanting it to be over quickly, and Dean keeps his hand on the back of Crowley’s head, fingers digging in every time Crowley sucks particularly harder or squeezes a bit too much with his fingers. Despite his efforts (or maybe because of them), it’s taking longer than usual. Crowley tries not to think about the fact that Dean is probably too distracted dwelling on the last few minutes, examining Crowley’s indignity over and over again.

He shouldn’t be embarrassed about it. It’s just something he likes that Dean doesn’t, is all. But his newfound humanity has been messing with his head lately and it leaves him vulnerable to things like shame and regret and other such pesky feelings.

It takes him a while to notice that he’s not the only one moving. It’s unthinkable, impossible, but it’s happening: Dean is thrusting his hips in time with Crowley’s movements, using the hand on Crowley’s head for leverage. His actions are controlled, deliberate, like he’s thinking too much about it. It lights up Crowley’s cheeks with renewed embarrassment, but right now he’s desperate enough to take what he can get.

He is, however, not averse to using a trick or two to spice things up now that Dean is willing, if not eager, to play along. He slides his hand lower on Dean’s cock and twists it until his fingers are fondling the man’s balls, leaving the bottom half of Dean’s cock untouched. Then he flattens his tongue down to unblock his throat, and waits. Dean had better man up and start working for it now because Crowley can’t handle another rejection.

And Dean, for once, does not disappoint. Maybe it’s because he’s realized Crowley won’t break from a little face-fucking, or maybe he’s far enough gone not to care, but either way he’s thrusting into Crowley’s throat in earnest now, eyes screwed shut and lips pressed tight, hand digging into Crowley’s scalp hard enough to hurt, and it might not be as brutal as Crowley likes it but his throat is hurting and his eyes are watering and it's glorious, _satiating_.

He lets go of Dean’s balls and grabs the man’s ass, digging his fingers into the flesh to hold on while Dean fucks his mouth. The pressure of the cock against his throat is making it hard to breathe, not that he needs air to survive, but his old instincts always act up when he’s inside a human body. The desperation only adds to the excitement, though, and soon he’s close enough that it feels like he could come just from this. He can’t, of course, but he’s not going to touch himself because that would distract him from what might very well be his only chance at getting face-fucked by Dean Winchester. Oh, if only he had thought to bring his camera.

Dean’s thrusts are speeding up now, cock stretching Crowley’s throat to its limits. A moan escapes the man’s lips, delicious, and Crowley closes his eyes and drinks it up like he’s parched, a four hundred year old thirst that he didn’t know he had until now. Before he knows it, the heel of his own hand is digging into the front of his pants like it’s got a will of its own and he’s coming, hard and fast and with barely enough awareness not to bite down.

He’s still feeling the aftershocks of his own orgasm when Dean’s cock grows inside his mouth and starts pulsing. It’s in so deep that the come slides right down his throat, and he swallows on instinct, squeezing the last drops out of Dean.

They stay like that for a too-short moment and then Dean pulls out and steps away, pulling his pants up in a stilted movement. His face is twisted in a grimace that could be regret, could be disgust, could be both, but it’s also unmistakable anger.

“Get out,” the man spits, turning to face the empty wall. There’s no need; Crowley knows it’s time to make an exit. Too bad Dean seems to have sobered up enough that he won’t forget all this in the morning. All Crowley can hope for is that he will pretend it never happened, in the old Winchester fashion.

It’s not the first time Crowley has screwed things up for a few moments of selfish pleasure. It won’t be the last either, he’s sure. And he knows, given the chance, he would do this all over again.

He turns to the door, smirking to himself. Maybe he can get Dean drunk enough for a repeat performance in a couple of days. Because he knows Dean would do it all over again too, he just needs a little incentive.


End file.
